Entangled Alliances 10: Plots, Counter-Plots...
by SheriAnn
Summary: Lucas manipulates Thomas. Thomas manipulates Lacom and Dre. Ford wonders if he is being manipulated.


_Disclaimer: This is an amateur work meant in no way to infringe upon the rights of Amblin Entertainment or the Sci-Fi Channel. Lucas Wolenczak, Nathan Bridger, seaQuest, etc., are all the sole property of Amblin Entertainment and its cohorts in Hollywood. The Non-Allied Powers are the products of this author's own deranged mind, as is the Ulysses . . ._

_Alternative Reality: some elements have been changed from canonical tradition. For example, Lucas Wolenczak graduated from Stanford with an M.S. in Artificial Intelligence, as well as a subject concentration in physics/mathematics. Some dates may appear suspiciously outside canon. In addition, because of the Non-Allied Powers (situated in a place called "Dominia," another element outside the seaQuest canon), this work can be seen as an Alternative Universe piece._

_Sequel: "Entangled Alliances" is a sequel to--yeah, you guessed correctly--"Entanglements with the Enemy." Let me know what you think of the new title (it used to be "More Entanglements with the Enemy"! I'd love to hear them!_

_Rating:**PG-13**, rated as such because of some adult themes and language._

_Summary: Lucas plays boom-boom once again with his vortex. The only real question is . . .who is his enemy? :-) _

_Copyright 2000 by SheriAnn_   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Entangled Alliances

Part Ten   
Plots, Counter-Plots, and More Plots

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Manipulate the manipulator, Captain Bridger had said.

Lucas looked around himself quickly, sighing. Yeah, he was really manipulating the manipulator now. Thomas ought to be shrieking in horror over how badly Lucas was manipulating him.

_Riiiggght._

Annoyed, he blew blond strands out of his hair as it--again--managed to flop into his eyes and obscure his view. Not that it was really an important view it was obscuring, but still . . . he would like to see what he was doing.

At least, that way, he knew exactly which part of his experiment he was tampering with and which part of his experiment was actually working. Just a few notches off over here with the lasers . . . just a few numbers off over here . . .

Carefully, he glanced up, eyes looking at Kristin with practiced casualness. She was busy mixing . . . something or other. He had no idea what it really was she was putting together--only she knew that--but he did know that Thomas thought she was putting together some "special formula" for his vortex. He just thanked God above that Thomas didn't truly understand chemistry overly well. Otherwise, they'd all be in more trouble than they could dig out of.

Thankfully, too, Thomas had a highly developed degree of suspicion. Lucas had made that work for them. It was actually quite simple: the vortex (renegade or otherwise) was a simple combination of water and computer-controlled laser power. That was all there was to it . . . the difficult part was truly intellectual. It'd taken him years to invent the complex, bizarre, twisting formulae for the whole arrangement. But the hardware was something both easily obtainable and manageable.

However, no one seemed ready to believe that, truth or not.

And Thomas had been no different. He'd thought Lucas was lying through his teeth when he'd claimed that all he needed was a computer, a water pool built to specs, and a good selection of industrial-strength lasers. Unfortunately for Thomas, Lucas had actually been telling the truth . . . only the crazed General hadn't believed it.

So, yes . . . in some ways, he'd managed to manipulate the manipulator right into their trap. He was glad that he'd listened to Bridger's advice on the matter, even if it had earned him several bruises and more than a few extra lumps to the skull.

Lucas again stared at the computer now sitting squarely in front of him. It had been General Thomas's "gift" to him earlier that morning. Lucas had slowly started to pretend he was cooperating, if somewhat sullenly, and as a Pavlovian reward for good behavior, Thomas had handed the computer his way. On the computer had been a powerful code compiler, a graphics imaging program (he supposed so he could draw prototypes of his vortex), and a mysterious copy of his own vortex program. Where Thomas had gotten his hands on it, he didn't know. He imagined it was from the _seaQuest_'s own databases. He was simply grateful that it was an incomplete copy.

He looked at his work, juggling a few numbers, adding a few extra loops of unnecessary code, and, in general, making a mess of his hard-earned formulae. As he played with the numbers, he vividly remembered his earlier conversation with Bridger.

It had been yesterday evening, when they were still sitting in the room--all of them locked together--after Lucas had tried to kill himself. Bridger had glanced warily around themselves, looking for bugs, wires, anything. After close scrutiny, the Captain had turned to him, drawing him near. They had huddled together, exchanging ideas on controlling Thomas. Then Bridger had smiled wickedly. When Lucas had confusedly asked what was on his mind, Bridger had told him--he had told him exactly how to play Thomas.

It was an intricate game of chess . . . and Lucas loved chess. But the stakes on this game were nerve-wracking.

Bridger had leaned towards him, tapping his nose with a small smile. He'd then proceeded to say the most idiotic thing Lucas had ever hoped _not_ to hear coming from his Captain's mouth. "Lucas," he had started, that impish smile still tilting one corner of his mouth, "all you have to do is tell him the truth."

Sure. Right. Lucas had just pictured himself walking straight up to Thomas and saying, "Here's my vortex. Here's everything you need for it. Can I go home now?" He'd then pictured Thomas falling over in his footsteps, howling in mirth, right before he'd ordered Lucas and company shot by the local firing squad.

He'd wondered, briefly, if Captain Bridger had been knocked on the head harder than he'd thought. He even looked at both sides of his face. No . . . no huge lumps. Nothing obvious, at any rate. He supposed there could have been a bump hidden beneath his hair, though.

Lucas had merely repeated his words, disbelief evident in his voice. "Tell him the truth? Captain, you can't be serious."

But Bridger had been serious, all right. He'd smiled back, again tapping Lucas's nose. His smile had widened as he saw Lucas roll his eyes. "Yes . . . tell him the truth. About everything. That all you need is some water . . . some lasers . . . and a computer. If he asks, tell him the exactly scientific explanation of why you need these things."

Okay. So . . . Lucas had done just that. And he'd gotten whacked over the head for doing so. He'd even included the Bridger-suggested "scientific-ese." That had earned him yet another cuff behind the ears. He'd begun to think that Bridger was still upset with him for his latest suicide idea when he'd seen the Captain . . . wink at him.

He'd rapidly resumed thinking that his Captain, while definitely the best Captain he had ever met, obviously had a concussion or some such thing that was causing irrational behavior. He'd even told this to Kristin, who'd just looked at him, snorted, and walked along on her way to do . . . whatever it was she was doing.

There was another interesting point. For whatever reason, Kristin was . . . playing with the scientific equipment. He knew she'd said, when she and Bridger had been informing him of their "plan," that she'd be working with him. However, his main problem was that he simply couldn't see what on earth she was doing in any constructive fashion. She seemed to be . . . well, just _playing_ with the equipment. She certainly wasn't doing anything vortex-related. She was just . . . mixing chemicals.

Lots of chemicals.

She was still doing it . . . a point that intruded itself into his attention as he saw yet _another_ box of chemicals being dumped into her side of the room.

Just _what_ was she doing over there? He only wished they'd told him. He had no idea. Whatever it was, she was able to do it because Bridger had--at least apparently--been right: tell Thomas the truth. Thomas hadn't believed Lucas when he had told him the truth, but that had all been part of Bridger's plan. It had allowed Kristin to play her role as Frightened-Doctor-Telling-the-Truth. It had allowed her to feed him a superbly balanced diet of misinformation. It had allowed them to advance the next pieces of their game with Thomas. 

And Kristin's play-acting had looked so frighteningly real. Just as Thomas was about to knock Lucas over the head for the fiftieth time that day, his angry voice yelling that there was no way in _hell_ that water and lasers and computer formulae could create the power of a renegade vortex, Kristin had rushed in, eyes convincingly wide and pleading.

Thomas had played right into their combined hands.

She'd cried, "No, Lucas! Please! Just tell him the truth!"

Lucas had stared at her, confusion and wonder in his eyes, for the plain and simple truth of the matter was that . . . well, he _was_ telling the truth. And he damned well _knew_ that she _knew_ that, too; she'd seen him create the vortex enough to know exactly what equipment he used for it.

He'd briefly wondered if everyone but him had lost their marbles.

Her next remark had made him want to choke as sudden understanding finally hit. He just wished _they_ had let him in on the little secret well before they started the act. His role had been to tell the truth, causing a suspicious Thomas to doubt what he said; obviously, hers was to lie and get Thomas to believe her.

Kristin had cleared her throat, bravely facing Thomas and stuttering, as if she _really_ didn't want to tell him anything: "Gen--general, he . . . uses," she'd flickered her eyes apologetically to him, though he'd known it wasn't real--it was all part of the act, ". . . he uses chemicals to get the powerful reaction you've heard described. The stronger the mixture, the stronger the reaction."

And Thomas, his mind telling him that water just couldn't create the effects he'd heard described, had believed her lie. He'd given her everything she asked for, including a rather nice assortment of explosives. Naturally, this was part of her plan . . . the plan that he wasn't fully informed of, from what he could tell.

She'd said that they needed to make a diversion. He supposed this was the diversion.

He still wasn't positive what the diversion was for, though. Bridger hadn't bothered to tell him of this, which only made him all the more worried.

Lucas sighed, returning to his original thoughts as he continued to insert numbers here and delete numbers there from his program. He shook his head. Numbers, chemicals, water, formulae . . . it was an insane gambit. He just hoped they weren't severely wrong in their assessment of both Thomas's patience and his knowledge of chemicals and computers. If so, they were all walking corpses. He knew they were anyway if they didn't find a way out of Thomas's control, but still . . . they were definitely playing a dangerous game here.

He continued writing his program, humming softly to himself. To anyone who knew computers, everything about his code would seem in order . . . perfectly, in fact. It streamed through just like computer language should, a nest of variables and odd symbols stringed together with other symbols. In fact, his code was perfectly in order--with but a few tiny exceptions.

He glanced around, then carefully scrolled up to the top of the screen. He added several more strings of code, then flipped back to the bottom of his screen.

What he was building right now was almost a Trojan Horse, but not quite. A Trojan Horse--which, admittedly, he'd written several times--was a program that "disguised" itself as something else: usually a virus masquerading as a completely harmless program, such as a computer game. The virus would remain dormant until the "mask" program--such as the computer game--was used. When the "mask" program was running, the virus would start deleting files, corrupting data registries, or the like.

Well, Lucas had thought of writing a Trojan Horse for Thomas--a "look-alike" vortex that masked a program killing all of Thomas's files, including his own mask vortex--but he'd settled on an even better idea. This idea bought all of them a little more time. After much debate, and after sadly deciding not to use a Trojan Horse, he'd written a variable overflow program. In essence, he was allocating only 64 bits of information into a computer that actually processed information by 128 bit units. Thus, for every 128 bits of code he wrote, only 64 bits were actually getting processed. He was writing his program in full . . . even while he was subverting it by feeding it the wrong space allocation commands. The beauty of the program was that, if he needed the _real_ program later, he could easily rewrite the allocation command . . . and, presto! The program would be back in complete working order. The other plus to this program was that it looked exactly like it should: the real code was there. The computer simply wasn't processing the information correctly. And he knew Thomas didn't know enough about computers to suspect a variable overflow.(1)

To further complicate the situation, Lucas had nested several defective lines of code within the real program. He knew what they were, he knew _where_ they were, and he knew exactly why they were there . . . but, of course, Thomas didn't. He was making sure of that. They would be simple to remove if he needed to _really_ use the program later--which he suspected he might--but, until then, they worked just right at making the vortex look like it was on the verge of working . . . but just not quite there.

Inwardly, he chuckled. Hell, not many people would know why his program wasn't working, which was helpful. It looked like he was diligently working on it, and he truly was--only it didn't work because he had subverted its memory.

Sometimes, Lucas loved computer programming. This was one of those times.

Popping his neck, Lucas again surreptitiously studied the room: Kristin, Nelson, and two Neanderthal replicas for guards. He watched as Nelson played with the lasers, then with the water pool that Thomas had built for the project. He seemed to be looking for something . . . Lucas wondered what it was. He watched for several moments, beginning to wonder if Nelson even knew what he was looking for. Was it a show for the guards? He supposed it could be. With a shake of his head, he returned to his program, imbedding false programs within it even as he wrote the real one.

He just hoped they did something soon. The last time he'd seen Thomas, the man had looked nervous. Decidedly nervous.

Nervous lunatics were considerably more dangerous than happy lunatics. He'd bet his last month's salary on it . . . providing he'd had one to bet, of course.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


***** 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Thomas sat silently watching the news on his viewscreen. He smiled slightly as the anchor, Patricia Lacom, excitedly crinkled the paper in her hands. Except for her shock at the news of the UEO's declaration of war, Lacom was handling her assignment well. He was glad he'd leaked the information to her. With her ruthless pursuit of the Big Story, she'd release anything . . . even if it was guaranteed to be classified. Even if it might cause a war.

Yes, she'd been perfect for the job.

He sighed as his communications expert's voice suddenly patched into his office. "Sir? Mr. Gray is on line for you. Should I direct his call through?" the crisp voice asked.

Thomas growled, "Yes," even as he watched the news. It was the latest opinion poll. The UEO's declaration of war had met with more public support than he'd expected. He was pleasantly surprised that the public, at least, had more sense than some of the command staff at the Pentagon. If he'd heard any more whining about peace and protocol, he would have throttled the old desk-bound fools.

Didn't they understand the risks? They were at war. War! They couldn't be worried about "peace" and "protocol." The asses would cry over their peace and protocol even as NAP seized UEO territory and killed UEO citizens.

Peace, for God's sake . . . the _seaQuest_'s Commander Ford was the epitome of the UEO's mistakes in teaching peace and love in its command ranks. Ford had actually said the vortex was "supposed to enable faster travel." Faster travel! How could someone be second in command of the UEO's flagship . . . and still believe that a weapon of the vortex's destructive capabilities was for _faster travel_? He supposed he shouldn't be surprised, given who commanded the vessel. Bridger was even more irritating in his clamoring for peace than his subordinate. At least Ford would go to war if ordered . . . Thomas wasn't so certain Bridger would. 

Eventually, though, even Ford would need to be replaced.

He returned his attention to the viewscreen as it flickered . . . this time filling with a form for whom he had waited the past few hours. He smiled slightly--perhaps even a bit nervously. He cleared his throat. "Gray. Good to see you."

John Gray, a nondescript, bland-looking man dressed in a gray suit with a gray tie and white shirt, tilted his lips; it couldn't quite be called a smile, but the beginnings of such a gesture were there. Thomas wasn't sure of his true name; he simply knew that the man went by "John Gray," a bland name for a man whose profession was blending in with others--not being seen even as he saw all those around him. Of course, the man's name matched just about everything about him: eyes, clothes, outward personality. Thomas had always wondered if it was some sort of a personal joke, but he'd never asked. He probably never would. Right now, the man's eyes, gray and emotionless, studied him. "Thomas. I see things are going as planned."

"Yes . . . the problem I mentioned earlier seems to have unraveled itself." He looked away for a moment, always uncomfortable to see this man's eyes scrutinizing him. "I don't think he will be a problem any more. He's not doing everything exactly as I'd like, but he's following a degree of my orders."

"Ah."

Thomas stared at Gray, wondering what the hell "ah" meant. From this man, it could mean anything. He waited for Gray to elaborate on his exceedingly enlightening comment, but Gray refused to do so. Finally, he cleared his throat, aware that the silence had stretched too long. "Has everything else been arranged?"

"Yes," came the cryptic reply.

Thomas sighed, shaking his head. Annoyed, he asked, "Did it go exactly as planned? Who made the arrangements?"

Though Thomas almost expected another "yes" in response, Gray actually answered by stringing more than two monosyllables together, surely a record for the uncommunicative man: "I took care of the arrangements, Thomas, as you requested. I also had it planned for the timeframe you specified. Providing you have held your end of the arrangement, our plan should go into effect in . . . approximately ten hours."

Ten hours. Thomas released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He nodded. "Very good. Anything else?"

"No. Just remember our deal. Wolenczak is ours."

Thomas carefully controlled the disgust that tugged at his face. He simply nodded.

After a moment's silence, Gray inclined his head, then disappeared from the screen. Thomas breathed in sharply and leaned back in his chair, shutting his eyes.

Everything seemed to be moving as scheduled. He would need to increase the pressure on Wolenczak, of course. The weapon was becoming increasingly important. NAP had to be destroyed. It had to be silenced, removed from the world's political environment. It had to be removed--_excised_--without question.

And Wolenczak was the key to that exorcism. He and his vortex would sway the balance of power in favor of the UEO. Just as the vortex had blasted gaping holes into the _Ulysses_, it would blast gaping holes into NAP's fleet.

Even as this was happening, Thomas would carefully weed through the Pentagon, through UEO command . . . and he would replace those officers and servants of the people who no longer were fit for duty. In this world of increasing political greed, in this world of increasing dissension, the UEO needed a powerful leadership. It needed to be powerful so that other, ruthless powers couldn't take advantage of it. General Thomas was dedicated to making sure that wouldn't happen.

As he began to mentally list the officers he suspected needed removal, his watch suddenly beeped at him. He lost track, caught in the middle of his list; with a growl, he hit his desk, throwing several stacks of papers onto the floor.

Angrily, he glanced at the watch, tempted to throw it, too, against the floor--and perhaps to ram his heel into it. However, his ire cooled as he glanced at it and remembered why he'd set it in the first place.

It was 3:00 p.m. Time for his teleconversation with Secretary General Andrea Dre, who was calling an emergency session of the UEO together. The session was slated to begin at 4 p.m., but he wanted to impress the need for an increased fleet in NAP waters. They were at war. To keep the fleet spread too far was a mistake of the worst possibilities. They needed to concentrate their ships in enemy waters. They needed to have the means to kill any and all NAP ships heading their way.

The fleet had to stop what Thomas had suspected all along: that NAP was planning an invasion into UEO lands. They had to stop that, and the only way to do it was direct confrontation--without mercy.

This was his war. He'd damned well make sure she played it his way.    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


***** 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Tension wrinkled his forehead and increased the pounding in his head. Sweat trickled down his face and onto his neck, sticky, wet. He ran a thoughtful hand across his lips, unknowingly mimicking the very movement that Bridger so often used when deep in thought.

He shook his head. No . . . it didn't make sense. None of it did.

But he'd never had reason to doubt his source. Lieutenant Bailey, an aid to General Lord's office, had been a close friend since . . . high school. Even earlier than that, actually, if he included their rivalry and subsequent friendship in the sixth grade. Ron Bailey had never lied to him. The man had never been a dupe, either.

"I'm telling you, Jonathon, something is going down here. Something very big." Bailey stopped, looked around himself nervously, then returned to the screen. He was at home, by all appearances, but Ford couldn't help but notice that his friend seemed very nervous. His internal alarm bells were ringing . . . but he wasn't certain if it was because he should disbelieve everything Bailey said--or because what Bailey said was alarming if it were even remotely true. "And it's not _just_ the war, though that's about as big as things get around here."

Ford pondered this a moment, silently wondering what really could be worse than a war. Whatever it was, Bailey was spooked. Badly. "Is there any possibility that your information is wrong . . . that it's only rumor?"

"Jonathon, weren't you listening just now?" Bailey leaned into the viewscreen, his hazel eyes wide against a suddenly pale face. The harsh red of his hair glared in the light streaming through Bailey's room. "There are strange uniforms here. Ones I've never seen. And I'll be damned if I know where they're coming from . . ."

"Does Lord know?" Ford asked, troubled. "Surely, the General knows."

"That's just it, Jon. _I don't know._ If he does, he's not talking."

"Ron, there's no way that people in new uniforms could go unquestioned in the Pentagon. It's impossible."

"Not in the Pentagon . . . no. Outside. All over." He looked away, then back at his friend. "That's not all there is. It seems that several of the Generals in the Pentagon are getting a bit ahead of themselves. They're rumored to have started the skirmishes without direct orders from the UEO Security Council."

That stopped Ford. He stared. When he next spoke, his words were slightly hoarse, "Who were the Generals? Do you know?"

"It's only rumor, Jon. Conjecture . . . but damned well-founded conjecture. Thankfully, Lord doesn't seem to be part of it; he's just as worried about it as I am. Thomas is one name I've heard several times . . ."

Ford frowned, mind racing back to that mysterious "we" Thomas had thrown around in their last conversation. Could that "we" have been exactly what Ron was hearing in D.C.? Something certainly wasn't right . . . not right at all. 

Slowly, he leaned into the viewscreen. He lowered his voice, suddenly feeling nervous, too, about what they spoke of. "Ron . . . have you heard anything of a weapon? A vortex?"

Bailey's brow furrowed, and he shook his head in perplexity. "Of course I have. During the entire _Ulysses_ fiasco. Your own boy genius . . ." he paused, sighing as he realized to whom he was speaking . . . and what had just happened to the "boy genius" in question. "I'm sorry, Jon. I didn't mean to sound heartless."

"No, no . . . you didn't." Ford sighed wearily, his head aching even more now that he remembered the trio of crewmates who were missing; though they were never far from his thoughts, they had been pushed to the sidelines as the war struck. "It's okay. But . . . have you heard anything? Anything at all?"

"Well . . ." Bailey paused thoughtfully, a frown on his face. He finally nodded slowly. "Yeah . . . now that you mention it, I remember one of the Generals talking about a new weapon . . . an extremely powerful one. But . . . I don't see how it could be the vortex. According to this one General, it's just about ready to go into production. I don't think the vortex ever got to that stage, did it?"

"No . . . nothing like that. Do you remember who the General was?" Ford asked, holding his breath--suddenly very sure what the answer would be.

"Hmmm . . . I think it was Thomas." Bailey shut his eyes, then nodded. "Yeah. It was Thomas. I remember he was rather . . . excited about it. I thought he was full of it, to tell the truth. Wolenczak hadn't said anything about getting that thing ready for actual production . . . as far as I know, too, he's the only one in the world who could do it."

Ford nodded. As far as he knew, that was the case. This made him all the more worried with what Thomas was saying . . . it was a mystery that made his very skin itch with dread. Lucas wouldn't sell the vortex to anyone--especially not for production. But Thomas would. Ford had no doubt that the General would use the vortex as a weapon if he could only figure out how to use it.

The fact constantly nagging at the back of his head was that Lucas was missing.

It was a rather convenient timing . . . perhaps too convenient.

Suddenly, he shook his head, returning his thoughts to his friend. He shrugged. "I don't know, Ron . . . some very weird stuff is going on here. Anything else?"

Ron paused, nervously shifting in his seat. Again, he darted a worried look around himself, then turned back to an equally-worried Ford. He cleared his throat. "There is one more thing, Jon. You're not going to like this."

Ford shook his head. "I'm not liking anything these days, Ron. Believe me, my not liking it is of no concern right now. What is it?"

Ron exhaled loudly. He looked down at his fingers, red hair obscuring his eyes. Softly, he told Ford, "They've put out an APB, Jon. An APB. I can't believe it."

Ford could only blink at this. An APB? Finally, as Ron seemed unlikely to be forthcoming with any more information without prompting, he asked, "On whom?"

Bailey refused to look up. He kept his eyes focused downwards, as if avoiding Ford's gaze--as if expecting to see accusation there. "Jon . . . Jon, it's on Noyce. On Bill Noyce."

For at least the third time that week, shock struck Ford silent. He stared, unable to utter a sound.

"Yeah . . . I know the feeling," Bailey commiserated, finally looking up at his friend. He shook his head. "I can't believe that Noyce would do anything. They've got Alicia Noyce on the APB as well . . . I can accept that. She was on the _Ulysses_. She's not . . . one of us, truly. But _Noyce_. No. I can't accept that."

Ford blinked, at last finding his voice. "Noy--Noyce? But what are the charges?"

Bailey sucked in a large gulp of air. He snorted. "Treason. Can you believe that? Treason." He abruptly stood, walking stiffly in front of the viewscreen. He turned back towards Ford. "I can't believe they'd even _think_ it . . . Bill Noyce? _A traitor?_ Not likely. Not any more likely than . . . me . . . or you . . . or your Captain. But . . . clear as day. The APB is out for them."

The two friends stared at one another, then shut their eyes in pain. After a moment, Bailey said a strained good-bye, and Ford shut the viewscreen off.

Slowly, Ford stood. His shoulders slumped as he realized that, soon, he'd have to tell his crew this new fact.

That their Captain's oldest and best friend was a traitor.

And that he might have participated in the betrayal of their own Captain, Doctor, and teenage genius.

Angrily, not even realizing he was doing it before it was far too late, Ford struck the wall with his fist--twice. He then leaned his head against it, trembling, wondering how they had ended up here, in this mess, with nothing--_nothing_--remaining to hope in, to believe in.

These were the times that he envied Tim for his strong beliefs . . . for now, he certainly didn't have them. And he wished he did.

Oh, God, he wished he did.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


***** 

  
  
  
  
  
  


(1) The Trojan Horse and the variable overflow programs are actual possibilities within the computer world. The Trojan Horse's most memorable appearance (in the past few months) was the "I love you" email sent out with an attached virus program. The variable overflow is a self-coined term for a computer programming possibility; my husband (thanks, Ray!!!) filled me in on how it works. We're sure there is a "real" name for it, but Ray couldn't remember and none of the textbooks had it listed.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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